Death Eaters
The Burrow was quiet, nothing like the usual. The kids — As the couple called their adult sons and daughter — were already at their rooms, Hermione had chosen this late hour deliberately, seeking privacy for a conversation she could no longer postpone. Her sense of fairness wouldn’t let her rest until she had addressed the matter.
Hermione didn’t falter. Her expression remained neutral, her voice measured as she replied, “I understand your concerns, Mr. Weasley. But I do ask that you look at this situation rationally. Legally speaking, Draco has been acquitted. He stood trial, answered every question under Veritaserum, and the Wizengamot found no evidence to convict him. To call him a Death Eater now, after that process, is not only unfair, it’s dangerous.”
Arthur tilted his head slightly, his expression softening but not yielding. “Dangerous how, Hermione? Surely you can understand why someone might still see him as a threat. His family—”
“His family’s actions are not his own,” Hermione interrupted, though her tone was firm rather than sharp. “And labeling him a Death Eater, despite the court’s ruling, undermines the integrity of our entire justice system. How can we expect anyone to respect the law if we disregard its outcomes when it’s inconvenient?”
Arthur’s mouth opened, but Hermione pressed on. “Defamation, calling someone a criminal without evidence, isn’t just morally wrong; it’s legally a crime. Draco Malfoy has been cleared by the law, and calling him otherwise doesn’t just harm him, it undermines the justice system itself.”
Arthur sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You make a good point, but it’s not just about the law, Hermione. It’s about the harm he caused—whether directly or by standing by and doing nothing. It’s hard to forget the pain people suffered because of his side.”
“And it’s not my place—or yours—to forget that pain,” Hermione said, her voice softening. “But the law doesn’t exist to perpetuate punishment. It exists to establish accountability and provide an opportunity for rehabilitation. Draco wasn’t convicted because the evidence wasn’t there. We may not like it, but that doesn’t give us the right to call him something he legally isn’t.”
Arthur frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “You truly believe he’s changed?”
“I believe he’s trying,” Hermione replied, her tone unyielding. “And that’s all we can ask of anyone. Prejudice—whether against Muggle-borns or those with criminal pasts—only perpetuates harm. Studies show that people who’ve been stigmatized, even after serving their sentences, are significantly more likely to reoffend or withdraw from society entirely. By refusing to let Draco move forward, we’re not protecting anyone—we’re creating a cycle of mistrust and alienation.”
Arthur glanced at Molly, who was seated quietly at the edge of the room, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “And what about Teddy? Is it fair to expose him to... it?”
Hermione’s gaze softened. “Teddy doesn’t see a Death Eater. He sees someone who cares for him, someone Andromeda trusted enough to help raise her grandson. Are we going to say that her judgment was wrong? That Harry’s judgment is wrong? Draco’s actions now matter far more than the mistakes of his past.”
Arthur let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “You always were good at presenting an argument, Hermione.”
Hermione allowed a small smile. “This isn’t about defending Draco Malfoy as a person. It’s about defending the principles we fought so hard for during the war: fairness, justice, and the belief that people can change. If we abandon those values now, what was it all for?”
Arthur’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching on the arms of his chair. “I feel like forgiving him is betraying Fred. Betraying everyone who died in that war.”
The room fell silent for a long moment, Arthur’s thoughtful expression mirrored by Hermione. Then, Molly broke the quiet with a voice that was soft but firm, drawing all attention to her.
“I watched the trial,” she said, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I don’t know why I went, but I was there. I was satisfied watching all those Death Eaters receive their sentences, years in Azkaban for the horrors they caused. But then I saw Narcissa Malfoy.” Her voice wavered slightly as she continued, “She screamed ‘my boy’ like her world was ending. She cried, Arthur. And in that moment, I realized… he was just a kid. Like my kids. That moment, I couldn’t feel satisfied holding a child accountable for being born into a family like that.”
Her gaze turned to Hermione, then back to Arthur. “I’m not saying I’ll forget what he did to our children—the hurt he caused, intentional or not. I’m not saying I’ll turn a blind eye. But I can give him a chance to prove me wrong.”
Hermione’s voice was quiet but steady as she spoke. “I will never forget the things he said to me too. That word is etched into my skin—a scar I’ll carry forever. But I can’t judge him forever based on who he was when we were young. If we’re going to condemn him, let it be for his actions now—not the sins of his upbringing or the mistakes of his youth.”
Arthur looked away, his gaze distant. Molly reached out, placing a hand on his. “I miss Fred every day,” she said softly. “But I also know he wouldn’t want us to hold onto hate. That’s not who he was. Maybe… maybe it’s time to try letting some of it go.”
“How are you planning to do it?” Mr. Weasley asked his wife.
“First, asking them for Christmas” even Hermione was surprised by Molly, but she smiled. That was a fresh start.
…
The Greengrass mansion wasn’t exactly as Draco remembered it. It still retained its elegance, as dazzling as any other ancestral home of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, which the Greengrasses, of course, were. But being situated in the Muggle world, it wasn’t used often—just a countryside retreat, something their family visited sporadically, more for novelty than necessity. Now, the house bore the signs of neglect: layers of dust coated the furniture, and cobwebs clung to the corners of the grand, high ceilings.
When Draco and Astoria were still engaged, this was their hideaway. She’d once told him that not even her parents remembered this place existed, making it the perfect escape. Now, sitting across from her in the dimly lit kitchen, he found it harder to reconcile the woman in front of him with the memory of those times.
Astoria looked different. It wasn’t anything obvious—not her features or her posture—but something in her eyes, her smile. Even her hair seemed lighter, glossier. She seemed... happy, glowing even, despite the clutter and abandonment of the house around them. But there was something guarded beneath the glow, an edge to her cheerfulness that Draco couldn’t quite place. He didn’t have long to dwell on it before the real reason for her demeanor came to light.
Draco's sharp gaze drifted over her as she moved about the room. There was something about her movements—restless and protective. He frowned as his eyes caught the way her hand occasionally drifted to her stomach.
“You’re pregnant.” It wasn’t a question.
Astoria froze, then sighed, her fingers brushing her abdomen. “Two months,” she admitted. “I only found out after I left Paris.”
“Paris,” Draco repeated, his voice tight. “And the father?”
The hesitation was brief but damning. “Theo,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Draco blinked, his mind stumbling over the name. “Theodore Nott?”
“Don’t look so surprised,” Astoria snapped, her nerves fraying. “It’s not like you have a monopoly on poor romantic decisions.”
Draco’s laugh was bitter, almost painful. He sank into a chair, running a hand through his hair, a futile attempt to smooth the mess of his thoughts. “You have a thing for Death Eaters, don’t you? First me, now Theo?”
In another time, she would’ve defended Theo—she would’ve tried to explain away Draco’s bitterness. But this time, she didn’t. The words caught in her throat.
“It’s complicated” She cut herself off, looking away. “When I ran into him in Paris, some months ago, it felt easy. Familiar. Like a fresh start.”
“Except it wasn’t, was it?” Draco said, his tone sharper than he intended. “You didn’t deny he was a Death Eater.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a long moment, she didn’t say anything. Finally, her voice was barely above a whisper. “Aurors came to our place. They said Theo was under suspicion of aiding Death Eaters. He begged me to believe him, but... Potter was there. I thought you knew something.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Like if Nott is innocent? Don’t kid yourself. You ran because you know he isn’t. Or because you are a coward.”
Her head snapped up, her eyes burning with a sudden fury. “Don’t you dare judge me, Draco. I did what I had to do to protect my child.”
The words stung him, but it was the way her hand moved to her stomach—so instinctively, as if she couldn’t help it—that silenced him. Her gesture was small, yet full of conviction, and Draco found it impossible to look away.
“Do you really expect that he’s innocent?” he asked, his voice softer now, hesitant.
She hesitated, her expression faltering just enough for him to see the doubt. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “He’s changed—or at least, he said he had. He helped Hogwarts during the war. He helped you.”
Draco snorted. “Sure. Because switching sides when the Dark Lord’s about to lose counts as redemption now.”
“It counted in your turn!” Her voice was sharp, biting—just the kind of retort Draco would expect from her.
But the words hit harder than he anticipated.
“We both know it didn’t,” Draco said quietly, the weight of his own words hanging heavily in the air. “I’m still being watched like a bloody criminal, I did community service, I don’t have a wand. Being declared innocent in the papers doesn’t change how people see me. They hate me,” Draco thought of the Weasleys.
“Theo passed through the same, that's why he was in Paris, where no one knew him.” Astoria’s gaze dropped to her hands, clasped tightly together in her lap. She stared at them, the tension in her shoulders unmistakable. “But he didn’t have the Mark,” she murmured, almost as if speaking to herself.
“And you expect me to believe that Theo is different from them because of it? He hated me for getting the Mark, hated me for being part of the inner circle. You think he doesn’t still hold that grudge?”
Astoria’s eyes hardened, a hint of frustration breaking through the veil of uncertainty in her voice. “It’s hypocritical of you to think it’s only you who can change, Draco. You don’t get to decide that for everyone else.”
Draco’s breath caught in his chest, frustration mixing with a strange ache. “Then tell me this,” he said, voice thick with the weight of his own frustration. “Are you hiding here because of the Death Eaters or Theo?”
Her head snapped up. “I’m not hiding because of Theo,” she said, her voice trembling. “They’re after me, Draco. And you. And anyone else they think betrayed them.”
Draco stiffened. “Let me guess. We’re at the top of the list.”
“Probably.”
“And you think they’ll come for my mother?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
Astoria’s expression grew grim, and her hand reached across the table, grasping his with surprising strength. “And for you,” she added, her tone urgent.
Her grip was firm, her eyes pleading. “Stay here. Just for a while. It’s safer here, away from the magical world.”
Draco shook his head. “Astoria, they’ll find me no matter where I go. And I can’t leave Teddy. Potter barely manages as it is.”
“Barely manages?” she asked, arching a brow.
“He can’t keep up with a four-year-old for more than an hour without going mad,” Draco said, a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And that’s when he’s not busy being a Gryffindork.”
For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of everything unsaid settling heavily between them. Draco knew he couldn’t stay, couldn’t hide. But as he watched Astoria cradle her stomach, her fear carefully hidden behind a mask of false cheer, he couldn’t shake the feeling that things were about to get far more complicated.
Trying to mask the tension, Draco leaned back in his chair, gripping the edge of the table as if bracing himself for a storm. “I can’t believe you like Theo. You’ve gone mad.”
“At least I’m not hopelessly in love with the so-called savior I claim to hate,” she shot back, her voice rising just enough to mask the unease lingering behind her words.
Draco raised an eyebrow. “What? Everyone knows?”
Astoria smirked. “Draco, darling, you climbed a bloody tree to impress him.”
Draco groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I thought we agreed never to mention that again.”
She sipped her tea, the delicate porcelain cup nearly hiding her smug grin. The two of them sat facing each other at the rickety old kitchen table, the dust motes swirling lazily in the faint sunlight streaming through the curtains. Their banter softened the tension, the ridiculousness of their conversation acting as a fleeting escape from the heavy reality pressing in around them.
Draco stared at her, at the light catching her gaze, and for a moment, he was reminded why he’d almost agreed to their engagement all those years ago. Her eyes were so similar to another pair he knew—though those were hidden behind ridiculous round glasses.
Astoria huffed, as though something had just occurred to her. She chuckled, pouring herself another cup of tea. “You’ve got him living in your house, and you’re not even trying to slip an aphrodisiac into his food? Pathetic.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “First, he’s the one who cooks. Second, even Amortentia couldn’t help me.”
Astoria frowned in mock disbelief. “That’s ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous,” Draco snapped, “is that a heart on the black market costs 400,000 galleons, and he got mine for free.”
Astoria burst into laughter, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh, Draco,” she said, shaking her head. “You really think staying near a Gryffindork is going to save you?” She wiped a tear from her eye, still laughing softly.
Draco’s attempt at a sarcastic smile faltered. “It’s not about saving me. It’s my place. I don’t know who I’d be anywhere else.”
Astoria’s expression softened as she looked at him. Her pregnancy hormones made her emotions harder to suppress, and for a brief moment, tears welled in her eyes. They sat in silence again, the weight of their unspoken fears and decisions hanging between them.
…
Draco knew he was already running late, so what did it matter if he also stopped to see Narcissa? As much as it pained him to see his mother like this—so different from the proud, composed woman he had grown up with—he couldn’t bear the idea of abandoning her completely. Adjusting the lapel of his coat, he stepped through the Floo, the familiar green flames depositing him in the starkly lit visiting area of the long-term ward.
He had stopped bringing flowers months ago. She never noticed them, and they always ended up wilting in the corner, untouched. Instead, he carried books tucked under his arm—texts on Muggle psychiatry and neuroscience. Narcissa wouldn’t care to know that her son had been delving into Muggle medicine, but Draco found it fascinating. The magical world’s approach to mental health was archaic at best, dismissive at worst. In comparison, Muggles seemed... almost enlightened. It was scientific, logical, structured. It made sense. Not that he’d ever say it aloud.
When he entered the ward, the sterile smell greeted him, faintly medicinal and oppressive. A nearby Healer murmured softly to another patient, the sound blending into the background. Narcissa was seated by the window, her posture immaculate but her gaze distant, as though she were staring through the glass into some other world. She hadn’t even flinched at the sound of his arrival.
“Mother,” Draco greeted softly, his voice careful not to disrupt the fragile stillness of the room.
She didn’t turn her head, didn’t even acknowledge his presence. That wasn’t unusual. Narcissa often seemed locked in a world far removed from his. She hadn’t been this bad before Andromeda’s death, but the loss had hollowed her out. Today, she seemed even more distant than usual.
Draco settled into the chair opposite her, setting the books aside on the small table. He folded his hands, unsure of how to bridge the silence. Conversations with his mother had become a minefield—half-hearted attempts at small talk, one-sided anecdotes, or simply sitting quietly. She rarely replied, and when she did, her words were fragmented and unrelated.
“I brought a few new books,” he began, his voice tinged with awkwardness. “They’re about treatments Muggles use for... cases like yours. It’s all very rational. Methodical. I think you’d hate it.”
His lips quirked into a faint smile, but Narcissa didn’t respond. She continued to gaze out the window, her hands resting limply in her lap. Draco sighed, leaning back in his chair. He hated this—hated seeing her like this. But he had promised himself he would come every week, no matter how hard it was.
The anger that had been simmering all day finally broke free, and his voice trembled as he spoke.
“Mother,” he said sharply, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the chair, his whole body tense as though holding himself together. His breath came faster now, uneven, and his fingers trembled against the polished wood. “I’m afraid. Astoria said people might try to hurt me—to hurt you. And I won’t let them.”
His voice rose, his desperation breaking through. "I’ll protect you no matter what, I swear it!" His shoulders shook as anger warred with fear, his words hanging raw in the air.
His voice cracked, but he pressed on, his tone more desperate now. “But I can’t do it alone, Mother. I need you. You’re supposed to be here with me! Can’t you—can’t you be my mother again? I miss you so much.”
He paused, his breath shaky, emotions bubbling over despite his best efforts to contain them. Memories of her cold yet commanding presence played in his mind. If she could hear him now, he thought bitterly, she would admonish him for his outburst.
“Pure-bloods don’t beg, Draco. Pure-bloods don’t cry,” she would have said, he imagined. “What would your father think?” Draco could almost hear the words in her voice, a sharp reminder of his upbringing that lingered more as a memory than something she would truly say now. Her usual refrain echoed in his thoughts, a sharp reminder of his upbringing. Lucius’s opinion had always mattered most, and Narcissa knew how to wield it like a blade.
It wasn’t hatred that had colored her interactions with him. She had her moments of coldness, moments that stung, but Draco knew it wasn’t out of malice. As everyone said he was the spitting image of his father, and perhaps that had been the problem. However, he could never bring himself to resent her, not when he, out of everybody, knew how hateful he could be. How hateful the person he acted and looked like was.
See, he hadn’t grown up in a loving family. There were no "I love yous," no soft reassurances. But he had known—he had believed—that his parents would do anything for him. Or at least, he had tried to believe it. He could ask for any gift and receive it, but how could he ask for love? Love wasn’t a trinket to be handed over or an expectation to be met; it was elusive, conditional, earned through some unspoken merit he was never quite sure he possessed. The absence of it was a void he could neither name nor fill, and the longing for it felt like a weakness he despised as much as he craved. Love wasn’t something you demanded; it was something you earned. And if you didn’t have it, well, that only meant you hadn’t deserved it.
“I can’t lose you, please, please,” he sobbed, barely noticing when the tears began streaming down his face. His words echoed in the stillness, raw and heavy. He expected silence. It was always silence.
But then she moved. Slowly, as though waking from a long sleep, Narcissa turned her head. Her eyes, usually distant and empty, locked onto his, and for the first time in what felt like years, Draco saw her.
“Draco,” she whispered, her voice soft but steady. It was her voice—not hollow, not far away, but hers.
Draco froze, his breath catching in his throat. “Mother?”
She opened her mouth as though to say more, but the spark faded just as quickly as it came. Her gaze drifted back to the window, her body retreating into stillness once more.
Draco slumped back in his chair, trembling. The words he wanted to say stayed lodged in his throat. For a fleeting moment, he had seen her again—truly seen her—and it left him both shaken and unbearably hollow.
That small flicker of recognition made all the pain worth it. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though he had his mother back—close enough to touch, close enough to believe she might return.
...
Draco walked through the door, expecting silence. But it was nearly lunchtime, and he found Harry sitting at the kitchen table, papers scattered in front of him. The house felt unusually still, save for the soft sound of Harry’s breathing, Teddy was not in sight.
"Sorry I’m late," Draco said, his tone more apologetic than usual, his shoulders slumped as he glanced at Harry. "Got caught up with something. Where’s Teddy?"
Harry, tired and a little on edge, didn't immediately look up. "He's fine. But it’s been a long morning. I had to skip work. Couldn’t bring him in today, so..." His voice trailed off.
Draco winced, guilt stirring in his chest. "I didn’t mean to leave you with everything," he muttered, glancing at Harry’s exhausted posture. "I had to work until later than usual. Emergency."
“Is it really true?”
"Don’t try to imagine things, Potter, I was just working and stopped to see my mother" Draco muttered, irritation lacing his voice. He wasn’t in the mood to entertain Harry, especially while the man was clad in his ridiculous Auror uniform, looking far too serious for his taste.
"I know you are lying, just tell me the truth." Harry's voice was sharper now, but Draco was in no mood to respond.
"I don't know what you are saying. Where’s Teddy?" Draco asked, deliberately avoiding the question.
"Sleeping," Harry replied, his tone softening a little. "I had to figure out how to work with Ted underfoot. If I'd known you were off wandering in Muggle London, I would’ve just left him with you."
Draco raised an eyebrow, his suspicions piqued. "How do you know where I was?"
"Why were you there?" Harry countered, his voice taking on an edge. Draco froze, caught off guard by the sudden tension in the air.
"You're insane," Draco muttered, stepping back as Harry closed the distance between them, effectively blocking his escape.
"Why aren’t you answering me?" Harry demanded, frustration creeping into his voice.
"Because it’s none of your business! Merlin, you can be insufferable!" Draco snapped, brushing past Harry a little too roughly, his shoulder grazing Harry’s—whether it was intentional or not, Draco wasn’t sure.
"Alright, it’s none of my business if you were meeting with your girlfriend. But you exposed yourself to danger!" Harry's voice rose, his anger evident. "There are rules that you have to follow, you know you can not see people without Minister authorization, but you went anyway, just to see Astoria!"
Draco didn’t flinch. He kept walking down the long hallway, his back to Harry. But when Harry’s words hit him, he froze, hand gripping the door frame as he tried to regain control. He forced a sarcastic smile instead of unleashing the fury threatening to boil over.
"Wow, wow... You’re following me, Potter? What are we, back in our sixth year?" Draco smirked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"An Auror saw you acting suspicious and followed you. He saw you with Astoria. He reported it to me—that’s part of my job," Harry explained, but the words only made things worse. The tension between them was palpable as Draco’s expression hardened.
"Wait, I’m being watched by you? I mean, I get it. I’m a Death Eater, and the Ministry’s keeping an eye on me. But shouldn’t the Aurors be chasing the other Death Eaters, or whatever? And you’re involved because we live together? Is that part of your job, too—extracting information from me?" Draco’s words rushed out, disbelief mixing with a simmering anger.
"What? No! Look at the nonsense you're spouting!" Harry protested, but it was too late. The damage had already been done.
Neither of them was particularly calm, and anyone who had seen them interact knew they never really got along. But this argument was by far the most intense since they’d moved in together. Compared to the fight after Draco's chaotic encounter with the Weasley family, this one had started small, almost trivial. But suddenly, it had escalated into something much larger. What began as a complaint about Draco not answering Harry, and Harry’s frustration with managing Teddy alone, quickly spiraled into accusations and insults.
Things didn’t even make sense anymore. Draco started complaining about Harry leaving glasses scattered around the house, and somehow, Ginny became part of the argument. Harry wasn’t much better, ranting about Draco’s inability to do anything domestic—whether it was cooking, cleaning, or working late.
"Why are you bringing Ginny into this?" Harry snapped, his irritation evident.
Draco’s laugh was sharp, almost bitter. "Because she’s just as ridiculous as your arguments." But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel himself spiraling further.
Harry's frustration deepened. "You’re not making any sense," he said, his voice strained.
"And you are?" Draco shot back, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and disbelief.
Harry scoffed, stepping closer, the air between them growing heavier. "You’ve been hiding things from me. And I’m supposed to just trust you? You’re out there, running around, and I’m supposed to stay here and wait until you feel like going home?"
Draco’s jaw tightened. "So that’s a valid reason to stalk me?" His voice was sharp. "You want to talk about hiding things? Why didn’t you tell me the Death Eaters are after me?"
Harry froze, his expression faltering. "That’s not—did Astoria tell you?" Draco’s gaze hardened. “It’s confidential, not even the media knows about it."
"Well, confidential or not," Draco bit out, his frustration mounting, "I’d appreciate a heads-up if there are people trying to kill me."
“I didn’t want to alarm you.” Harry’s voice softened, but the strain was still there.
“Do you think I’m buying it? I don’t trust you.”
"I know. That’s why I’ve been trying to gain trust, to deserve it, Draco. Did you see me at Weasleys' house? They’re my family, and I’m choosing you over them. Can’t you see I’m giving up something important for you?"
"Great. But I never asked you to do that," he said, his words cutting. The second they left his mouth, regret slammed into him. The weight of his own words pressed down, but there was no way to take them back now.
Draco wanted to apologize, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. His pride was a force he couldn’t shake off; it was what had driven him to say those hateful words that he didn’t even mean.
Sometimes, when he opened his mouth, Draco felt as though it wasn’t his own voice coming out. It was his father’s. He could hear Lucius’s cold, commanding tone, the same one that had dominated his childhood, echoing in his mind. It was as if his father still had some sort of control over him, even though the man wasn’t physically present. The thought of it terrified him. The idea that, despite everything, he was still tethered to his past, still bound by the weight of expectations, of that legacy that hung around his neck like an iron chain.
He remembered how, throughout his life, people had looked at him with a mixture of pride and expectation, saying, “You’re just like your father.” They’d say it with admiration, like it was something to aspire to. He would smile, of course—he was Draco Malfoy, after all, and he knew how to play the part. But later, when he was alone in the silence of his room, that smile would fade, and a knot would form in his stomach. He would lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if it was a blessing or a curse.
"Stop!" Teddy shouted as loudly as he could from the top of the stairs, his small voice echoing lightly through the mansion.
Both adults reacted instinctively, rushing toward the little boy in a panic, afraid he might descend the stairs alone or lose his footing. Moving to a safer place for children seemed more appealing with each passing day.
"Sorry, Ted. Did we wake you?" Harry asked, his tone softening as he crouched down to meet the boy's gaze.
"Yes, now Ted hungry," Teddy said in his most demanding voice, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
"It's lunch time already. Why did you let him sleep until so late?" Draco began, his tone edged with irritation.
"Maybe because I was busy working," Harry replied, trying to hold back his own frustration.
"Going to fight again?" Teddy crossed his arms, pouting with a serious expression, the only way he thought to look stern.
"It was him who started it," Harry and Draco answered in unison, exchanging a glance before both chuckled. Neither of them could have imagined being scolded by a little boy not even three years old.
In the end, it was Teddy—the little boy who had once seemed like an unexpected complication—who had quietly become the center of it all. Neither Draco nor Harry had the courage to admit it to each other, but deep down, they both knew that Teddy had become the reason for everything. He was the thread that tied their chaotic lives together, the unexpected joy in their otherwise tumultuous world. Despite the moments of frustration, the petty arguments, and the complications of living under one roof, they couldn’t deny how much Teddy had changed them. It was almost as if he had breathed color into their once-gray lives, turning everything from dull and routine to vibrant and full of meaning.
Neither man could have imagined, when they first started living together, how much they would come to rely on the little boy. His laughter, his questions, his innocence—it all had a way of pulling them out of their darker moods. He was their shared purpose, their reason to try harder, to be better, even when they didn’t think they had it in them. No matter how difficult the days were, they both knew that they wouldn’t change a thing.